


Overdue

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idril grants Tuor’s wish and brings Voronwë into the fold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overdue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She uses white ribbon for the occasion, and by pure coincidence, it looks marvelous against Voronwë’s dark skin. Her paler fingers make a loop of it around his chest, the ends drawing together over the middle—her calculations prove correct. There’s just enough room left to tie a loose bow, which she pulls on so the ends are even. She rearranges it carefully: she has time for proper preparations. Everything else is ready. When he’s wrapped, she settles back to eye him, head to toe, and wonders idly whether she should’ve ended the ribbon lower and tied the bow around his cock. 

“Am I acceptable?” Voronwë asks, light and perhaps a little curious. She smiles and nods, one hand smoothing over his stomach, in between the white crisscrosses. He wears nothing else. He sits half up in bed, propped by the pillows, on the side her husband usually takes. She pulls his thick braid over his shoulder, and she fingers it a few times before deciding it won’t do. 

She’s halfway through untwisting it before he murmurs, “My lord likes that style—he wove it in himself.”

“Do not call him that here,” Idril laughs in response, still combing out the braid. “It makes him uncomfortable, and we need him relaxed enough to... _perform_.” Voronwë quirks a small smile and nods his concession. “Besides, his mortal hands have never been much good at this—it looks messy.”

“I wear it with pride.”

“That is good of you, but you look better with it down.”

With a sigh, Voronwë drawls, “As my lady wishes.”

Idril accepts that with her own grin. They are in her bed, after all, her chambers: that makes it her rules. She finishes freeing the mess her husband made of Voronwë’s hair, and she brushes it over his shoulders with her fingers, the black shimmer another sharp contrast to the white ribbon. She’s barely finished when she hears the bedroom door open behind her. Both her and Voronwë twist around to look.

Tuor halts in the doorway, looking somewhere between shocked and awestruck. His eyes dart first to her, then Voronwë, then down the long line of his handsome body, all out on display. Idril notes, “You are early.”

Tuor’s gaze jerks back to her, and he asks, “What is this?”

“A wedding present. Do you like it?”

Tuor’s golden brows lift high on his head. He takes one absent step closer to the bed. He wears little more than her—she never changed out of her nightgown, and he must have shed his armour in the other room: he wears only trousers and a loose shirt. Perhaps he’d meant to rest. It’s late, the sky orange through the windows. She has other ideas. 

After a moment of no reaction other than _staring_ , Tuor looks to her and asks, incredulous, “You are giving me _Voronwë_?”

Idril suppress a small snort and corrects, “A night with him. I can give you no elf.”

Instantly, Tuor’s cheeks stain pink, and he splutters, “No, no, of course not—I did not mean—I only—” but he doesn’t seem to know and trails off, then looks helplessly at Voronwë, who merely tilts his head, showing mirth.

In the wake of Tuor’s silence, Voronwë asks, “Have you not missed me?”

Of course he did. All three of them know it, though neither man has said a word to Idril. It’s plain enough to see. She loves Tuor wholly and knows him well, and he’s never lied to her, only to himself. Now he drops his head into one hand and rubs at his nose, then looks up again and tries to speak, only to fail. Finally, he manages, “I have... I have sworn to love Idril, and I do...”

“Only me?” Idril asks gently. Surprise flickers over his face, and she cautiously goes on, “It is alright, my love. This is the way of us. I have seen the way you look at him, and I understand... I would just like to watch, is all.” She can’t help her hopeful smile. Perhaps it isn’t the best way to start, but she thought it might be the best way for _him_ , with her permission ever-present until he really _learns_ and trusts it in his heart. 

Voronwë volunteers, “I told you elves are open this way.”

Tuor shakes his head and answers, “I was afraid to believe it.”

Idril interjects, “Believe it. Now, will you come and unwrap your gift?”

Still looking torn, Tuor places a tentative leg on the bed, then hikes himself up, crawling forward. It’s as though he’s waiting for them to laugh and announce this all a cruel joke, but Idril waits patiently against the headboard, as relaxes as she wants him to be. As Tuor draws closer, Voronwë hikes up his legs, allowing Tuor to come between them—they’ve been tied separately in sparse loops from thigh to ankle and back up again. Tuor looks over each, then higher along Voronwë’s middle, pausing at his crotch, half-hidden by the ribbon. Dark curls and a long, half-hard shaft still show through. The first place Tuor touches is Voronwë’s chest, right above the bow, but he hesitates there, asking slowly, “This is... just one night?”

“As many nights as you wish,” Voronwë corrects. Idril can hardly blame him. They share grand quarters, and Tuor is a wondrous mate—how Voronwë ever gave him up for her in the first place, she has no idea. They waited too long to negotiate how they might share. 

Tuor looks at Idril, and she nods her confirmation. She can see in his eyes that he wants much more than just one touch, but he wants her permission for it. She suggests lightly, “Would you be more comfortable if I ordered it?” That’s another fantasy she’s been saving and is sure will come out one way or the other—they’re beautiful toys she’d love to have play at her command. Tuor tilts his head, his messy ponytail slipping along his spine. 

“Another time, perhaps,” he answers. For now, it seems enough. He turns back to Voronwë, one hand hovering over the bow, and the other lifts to Voronwë’s face, slipping along his cheek. He cups Voronwë softly and thumbs his skin, then leans forward, halting, and finally presses their lips together. 

Idril lets out a happy breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It’s a pretty thing to watch, Tuor’s chapped lips opening for Voronwë’s smooth mouth, two pink tongues coming out to meet in the middle, the kiss deep right away: a memory of what they must’ve shared along their hard road. Voronwë’s long lashes flutter closed against his cheeks, Tuor’s following and his grip tightening. He pulls Voronwë closer, tilting them together, their noses brushing, tongues working faster, a glimmer of wetness showing between. It’s harder than the kisses Tuor gives her, but not so different. It makes her shiver just to think of, and she has to fight herself to resist leaning forward to lick up the seems of their mouths—another time. They’ll try so many things in all the nights to follow. 

When Tuor finally manages to tear himself away from Voronwë’s eager mouth, his eyes remain closed for a moment, then he turns to her again, breathing hard. 

She urges just, “Go on.”

Then he seems to understand. Something in him snaps, and she can see the hesitance die—he’s had a taste and needs _more_. He hurriedly pulls the bow undone, then snatches at the ribbons, quickly peeling them away from Voronwë’s bared skin, only to give up somewhere around his crotch and leave the rest weaving down his legs. Voronwë doesn’t seem to have any care for it and focuses just on _Tuor_ —he must’ve waited long for this, and his delight is palpable through his calm demeanor. He wraps his freed arms around Tuor’s broad shoulders and weaves his fingers into Tuor’s golden waves, while Tuor grabs Voronwë around the middle and draws him down the bed, lying properly. Tuor stays between his legs, spreading them wider and pulling them higher.

When he stretches out along Voronwë, they both gasp, touching in so many places. Tuor grinds down, Voronwë arching up, and Idril watches in awe. She’s always loved the way Tuor looks in the throes of passion, but this is a new view, a new angle, and she watches the curve of his rear as he bucks into the warm body beneath him. They continue to kiss, rub together, and run greedy hands everywhere. Idril drops her hand to her crotch just as Voronwë purrs around Tuor’s mouth, “I am ready, if you want me.”

With just a quick look in Voronwë’s eyes, Tuor seems to understand. He nods and kisses Voronwë harder, then traces the curve of Voronwë’s legs, making sure they’re up around him—their two bodies lined up perfectly. It isn’t quite the way she pictured it—sharper, and not quite as artful, but wondrously beautiful nonetheless, interspersed with jagged movements of needy hips and faint noises and the growing scent of arousal. One of Tuor’s hands disappears between their bodies, and Idril gathers from Voronwë’s sudden cry that Tuor’s cock is against him, then _inside_ him—he tosses his head back and _screams_.

Tuor latches fiercely onto him, covers his long neck in kisses and drives forward—Idril can’t see where their bodies connect but can see the sensuous curve of her husband’s body and the way his rear tightens on entry, opened trousers sliding slightly down. Voronwë writhes, then pushes back, wraps around Tuor, and moans deliciously. Tuor is very long and very thick, Idril knows from much experience. But she supervised Voronwë slicking and stretching himself and knows he did it well. Often times, Tuor is slow with her, steady and full of loving promises, but now he slides in with barely restrained fire, as though the wait has built and broken his control. It’s interesting and erotic to see him so _raw_ —he goes at Voronwë like an animal.

Voronwë seems to love it. His next cry is laced with ecstasy, along with every one that follows. Tuor pounds mercilessly into him, always at the same angle, mouth frantic along Voronwë’s throat, chin, jaw, mouth. Voronwë’s hands scramble at Tuor’s back, Tuor’s in Voronwë’s hair, along his sides. Idril’s own hand moves in tandem with her husband’s thrusts; she kneads her veiled folds to the same rhythm. She breathes hard but quiet, though their cries would surely drown hers out. This moment is _magical_ , and she’s savouring it. Many more will follow. But this first is special, and she’s only an observer; she’s tasted Tuor many times on her own, and now it’s Voronwë’s turn to luxuriate in the power of his cock. She realizes belatedly that her free hand is drifting towards them, and she snatches it hurriedly back, bringing it to her chest instead. She massages her breasts as Tuor tugs on Voronwë’s bottom lip. They make the bed rock, and it reverberates up her thighs.

They go on like that for some time; Tuor has impressive stamina and Voronwë is patient. Eventually, Voronwë’s squirming increases tenfold, his noises magnified, and Tuor’s hand doesn’t reappear from between them—she imagines he’s stroking his new lover. She thinks he might be close, and she isn’t far behind. She’s as wet as she would be if it were one of their hands, but it’s not _enough_ , and suddenly Voronwë _shrieks_ , cocooning around Tuor’s body while he trembles all over.

Tuor follows in a few thrusts, his roar enough to be heard down the outside corridor. He stays inside for it, rubbing it out while Voronwë slips back, shuddering to take it. When Tuor’s finished, he lifts up on all fours to look down at the gorgeous elf beneath him. Voronwë looks blissfully happy and lifts to kiss Tuor’s nose.

It seems as though they’ll say something, perhaps confessions, gush words that have been held back for years. But Idril ruins their moment with a tiny moan she quickly buries in her hand. It draws Tuor’s eye first. He looks at her, burning, and mutters hoarsely, “You are the _best_ wife in all our world.” 

Then he crawls over Voronwë and Idril’s leg to settle down between her thighs, and he pushes up her nightgown so his mouth can get to work again, clearly virile enough for two.


End file.
